Cut to the Quick (3 page)

Back at her desk, Rhona evaluated what she'd heard. Good to know about her boss. His aversion to Tim Hortons disturbed her—she depended on coffee and doughnut fixes. But she recognized that this was her big chance. Misogynist or not, she intended to prove she could do the job.

She surveyed her overflowing in-basket. Since her move to Homicide, she'd been assigned routine tasks. Many required filling out paper work. Although only thirty detectives worked Homicide, their case documentation in quadruplicate required one woman to do nothing but run the copying machine. The paperless society had not arrived.

Although she hated completing documentation, she knew it was necessary to do it and do it well. Years before, one bad experience in court had taught her the importance of record keeping. A defense lawyer had not only twisted her words but also suggested she might have had a questionable motive for not including all relevant information. She'd kept meticulous notes ever since.

“Got something for you.” Frank Braithwaite dropped a file on her desk. “Your first case. Someone tampered with a young guy's motorcycle brakes and killed him. Hate to think what the poor bugger thought when he pumped the brakes and nothing happened. Must have been quick—he hit a loaded dump truck. Happened on Parliament Street. We're lucky the traffic guys saw that the brakes had been cut. Probably took a careful look when witnesses told them the guy didn't slow down. No skid marks either. After they saw the cuts, they called Homicide.”

She hoped this would be a relatively uncomplicated case. The master board detailing each officer's cases recorded ongoing and solved crimes in different coloured marker. She didn't want her first case to remain unsolved for all to see. As if she had spoken aloud, Frank cocked his head to one side and regarded her quizzically.

“I'm pairing you with Zee Zee.” Frank frowned. “Be interesting to find out how two
women
go about solving a crime—they don't often get a chance. But then, unless they have something special going for them, not many women are appointed homicide detectives. Certainly it will give you two the opportunity to show us what you can do.”

She couldn't accuse him of hostility or prejudice but, although he stated facts, there was no mistaking his meaning. And what about this
you
and
us
stuff. They'd better do well, or he'd use their failure as an excuse to turf her out, special status or not.

Rhona reached for the file, although there wouldn't yet be much to read. She'd skim it before she dropped it in her large bag's side pocket. The bag did double and even triple duty as a briefcase, purse and a place to stash the tools of the trade. She made sure she had her notebook, tape recorder and cell phone.

Frank's gaze focused on the bag. “That has to be a weapon in itself. Better than a billy stick.” His eyebrows rose. “Maybe it's something all our officers should have.”

Was he joking, criticizing or merely commenting? From Zee Zee's rundown, she guessed his remark was designed to knock her slightly off base. She wouldn't play his game—she'd go for humour. “Definitely. It should be standard issue. I've used it to knock out more perps than you'd ever believe. It deserves its own citation.”

Zee Zee, carrying her teapot, emerged from the duplicating room which doubled as the department's food and coffee preparation centre. Frank beckoned her to join them. He related the case's details without innuendo or underlying messages.

Interesting. Why had he directed his snide comments at her? Maybe because there hadn't been a witness. Or perhaps he'd had previous run-ins with Zee Zee and knew enough to leave her alone. After he left, she repeated his remark to Zee Zee.

“He's thrown down the gauntlet.” Zee Zee offered tea before she filled her own mug. “Can we solve this one brilliantly and in a hurry?” She raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn't be a problem. Aren't we twice as smart?”

“Undoubtedly.”

Zee Zee parked her tea pot, checked to make sure she had everything she needed and nodded toward the door. “First things first. We'll interview the family.”

On Winchester, they parked and walked to the Hartmans' house. Before they entered, they stopped and looked at the front yard.

“Two more Harleys?” Zee Zee said, although the evidence sat on the front yard parking pad.

“They look the same to me,” Hollis said.

“They're probably different years, but it would be hard to tell them apart. I wonder if Ivan's was the same? And check out the parking spot—looks like it's had a new coat of asphalt recently?” Zee Zee reached for her cell. “Time to get the techies here. We'll cordon it off and check for fingerprints on the pad and the other bikes.”

M
urdered
—the word expanded to fill the Hartmans' kitchen.

Hollis knew her face must look as blank-faced and wideeyed, as the others did.

Tomas shuddered and crushed his empty beer can. “Murdered! Ivan. Why? Who would kill Ivan?”

The metallic crunch. Magnified a thousand times. Spilled oil and gas and blood. She hoped it had been quick, that he hadn't suffered.

“The police will figure it out,” Manon said. “Never mind the police.
I
want to know. What was going on in my brother's life? What was he doing? What had he done? Why? Why would someone kill him?” Tomas stabbed his finger at Curt. “You must know.”

Curt, grey-faced, gulped his rum and plunked the empty glass down. He ran both his hands through his hair and shook his head. “You're right. I should, but I don't. Ivan and I haven't talked much lately. He was aware of what I thought of his dead end job and lack of ambition. He avoided me.” His dark eyes narrowed. “But don't blame me. You're his brother—what did
you
talk about?”

Etienne leaned against his mother. He sniffled.
“I
was his brother too. I loved him. He played cards with me and made terrific chocolate chip cookies.”

Manon tightened her grip. “And he loved
you.”
She released one hand to stroke his dark hair.

“Give me a break—I just got home this week—how would I know? Even when I lived here, he never hung out with me.” Tomas's shoulders rose, and his chin lifted. “I asked him sometimes. I did. But he turned me down.” His shoulders slumped. “Jesus, I probably didn't know him as well as Etienne. What did he do for fun? Who were his friends? I don't know.” Tomas's lean, hawk-like face twisted. He collapsed on a chair with his head in his hands. “And I feel really bad about it,” he said in a thick voice.

Nadine, crying softly, brought the teapot, sugar, milk and cups to the kitchen table. “Tea?” she asked.

Manon, Etienne and Tomas nodded.

“Two spoonfuls of sugar for everyone,” Hollis directed.

Several moments of silence broken by clinking spoons and Etienne's muffled sobs

Manon encircled Etienne with an arm as they drank their tea. Clearly her priority was
her
son.

Hollis wasn't family. Should she leave? At least make herself scarce while they digested the news. She shifted and rose.

“Hollis, don't go. We need you. You've experienced this. What happens now?” Manon said.

Hollis sank back. “Police officers will come and talk to everyone. They'll go through Ivan's things searching for evidence.”

Tomas lifted his head. “Dad, if the police haven't told Mom, you
have
to do it. I could, but it should be you. And you should go
now,
right now, before there's anything on radio or
TV
.”

Curt, who'd refilled his glass, took a long swallow. “You're right. I told the officers at Sunnybrook that I would.” He grimaced. “False courage. Lena will blame me.” His lips set in a straight line. “Maybe she should blame ambulance dispatch.

Why in God's name did they take him to Sunnybrook? Downtown hospitals have trauma units. Anyway, no matter what the police say, Lena will blame me.”

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Nadine answered and brought two police officers into the kitchen.

Impossible.

Hollis recognized Rhona Simpson, the Ottawa detective who'd been in charge of her husband's murder case. Rhona looked equally surprised.

Hollis recovered first. “Detective Simpson, you've transferred to Toronto?”

Rhona introduced Zee Zee and added, “I investigated Ms Grant's husband's murder a year ago. It was my last Ottawa case.” She nodded to Hollis. “The world grows smaller and smaller.” She directed her next remark to Curt. “You're Ivan Hartman's father.”

“I am.” Curt introduced everyone else.

“Sorry to intrude on your grief. If you can manage it, we'd like to ask questions. Time is important,” Zee Zee said.

“Perhaps we should move to the living room,” Manon said. Propelling Etienne ahead of her, she led the way.

Zee Zee took notes while Rhona conducted the interview. “I understand your son didn't live with you all the time? Any idea where he was going?” Rhona asked Curt.

“None. Not to work. He works...” Curt's eyes widened. He swallowed as if a large foreign object were stuck in his throat, “Worked, at the Buy Right Superstore on St. Clair. If he was going south on Parliament Street, he wasn't going there.”

“He also worked for Catering Plus. I have their phone number but not their address,” Manon said.

“Did he have alcohol or drug problems?”

“Of course not,” Curt said. His gaze and Manon's flicked to Tomas and away again.

Zee Zee made a note.

“Was he worried about anything? Depressed?”

“Are you implying he cut his own brakes?” Curt bristled.

Rhona held up her hand. “I'm not implying anything— these are routine questions. Did he belong to a gang?”

“Not Hell's Angels, if that's what you're suggesting. No, not a member of any gang.”

“Any trouble with the police?”

Curt shook his head.

“We found a current student card from George Brown College in his wallet. Which campus was he at, and what was he studying?”

“George Brown,” Curt repeated. He frowned. “I didn't know he was studying anything.” He addressed Manon and Tomas. “Do you know?”

They shook their heads.

“I do,” Etienne said.

He had everyone's attention.

Etienne managed a smile, although his eyes were swollen and his nose was running. “He was taking cooking. He was going to be a chef. He had a big white hat and everything.”

“We might have guessed,” Manon said. “But why didn't he tell us? Why is Etienne the only one who knows this?”

Rhona addressed Etienne. “George Brown has several locations around Toronto. Do you know which campus he was at?”

Etienne thought for a moment. “You know the big castle on the hill? He told me that every time he passed it, he thought of me. He promised to take me there in my summer holidays.”

“Good work. The Casa Loma campus.” She turned to Curt. “Was Ivan's bike the same as the other two parked outside?”

Curt nodded. “Different years.”

“Please don't use either bike. We'll test them and the pad for prints. We'll have more questions later. What about Ivan's room—we'd like to check it out.”

“My room is there too. We share the third floor,” Tomas said.

“Please come up and remove whatever you'll need for a few days. We'll secure the site until we finish our investigation. After we've spoken to Ivan's mother, we'll be back to make a thorough room check and ask follow-up questions,” Rhona said.

“I told the police at the hospital I'd tell Ivan's mother, my ex-wife, Lena Kalma. If you're finished with the questions, I'll go and get it over with,” Curt said.

“We'll give you time before we call on her. Please tell her not to touch anything in his room until we've checked it out.”

Curt headed towards the front door. “Papa, they said that you aren't supposed to ride your bike. Even if you could, I don't think you should,” Etienne said.

“What?”

“You have a bike like Ivan's—I don't want anything to happen to you.”

“My God, out of the mouths of babes.” Manon's hand rose and briefly covered her lips. Her eyes wide she said, “It's true. Maybe whoever did this terrible thing didn't intend to kill Ivan. Maybe it's a serial killer, and he plans to kill all of us.” She looked like she'd like to ratchet each word back into her mouth.

Rhona sighed. Too much television. Serial killers were rare, although to watch crime shows you'd think one lurked around every corner. The killer
might
have got the wrong victim, but there'd be time to talk about that later. “Serial killings are rare. This certainly doesn't look like one. I think you can put the thought right out of your mind,” Rhona said reassuringly.

* * *

“They didn't know much about him, did they?” Zee Zee said while Rhona navigated across the city. “I wonder if it's because they're Anglo-Saxon?”

“Would your family be different?”

“I'll say. Family and clan are important for us. Are they too important? A good question. Family is one reason Somalia is such a mess. Everyone belongs to a clan and defines himself that way.” She sighed. “Clans are forever at war with each other. It's feudal, never ending and may never improve. Are strong family attachments bad? Is Anglo Saxon reserve and refusal to get involved in other's lives a good thing? Are there definitive answers? I don't think so.”

“Did feuding force you to leave?”

A long silence. Rhona glanced at Zee Zee.

“Sorry. It's a painful subject. My father was an Ethiopian Christian physician. The rebels killed him and my brothers because of their beliefs. My mother and I escaped and lived in a refugee camp for two years. Finally one of my mother's brothers sponsored us to emigrate here. We do have tightly knit families. For example, our single women, no matter how old they are, do not live alone. I'm thirty-five, but because I'm unmarried, I live with my mother. I can tell you she knows a thousand times more about me and everyone in our extended family than Ivan Hartman's family knew about him. There's no way I'd be studying at George Brown without her knowing all about it. And my mother isn't particularly inquisitive—it's the way we are.”